


Playing wit' Fire

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, BAMF Porthos, Brotherhood, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Sabotage, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: A tournament between the Musketeers and Red Guard is all fun and games until acts of sabotage endanger musketeer lives.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 25
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was supposed to be called "Playing with Fire," but since I already have a fic with that title (even though it's in another fandom), *FF* won't let me use it. -_- And since I only had five minutes to think up an alternative or I just didn't post before work, this is the lame title we get instead. Sigh.

D'Artagnan stepped out of the Bonacieux home, the sun only skimming the tops of the buildings in the royal dragon compound. He was filled with nervous energy this morning, not quite sure what to expect when he showed up at the Musketeer garrison. Only two days ago he had gone storming in and challenged the musketeer Athos to a duel to the death. Events had then spiraled wildly, culminating in two others, Aramis and Porthos, essentially inviting d'Artagnan to stick around and see if he might work his way up to earning a commission of his own. It was all a bit dizzying.

His attention was drawn across the grounds to where Bonacieux's daughter, Constance, was making her way toward the dragon pens, a large wicker basket slung over one arm. He watched curiously as she opened a gate, pulled a dead rabbit from the basket, and tossed it into the alcove, rousing a dragon from its slumber. She threw in a second, then half turned, piercing d'Artagnan with a look.

"Stop standing around staring and make yourself useful," she called.

He started, then jogged across the yard toward her where she shoved the large basket into his arms. It was full of dead rabbits.

"Where'd you get all these?" he asked incredulously.

Constance moved to the next alcove where a gray dragon was up and waiting for breakfast. She picked up a rabbit and threw it in; the dragon caught it midair. "Keeping dragons fed means keeping sufficient food sources on hand," she replied. "We have a large rabbit warren, and the King's funds purchase beef every day as well. Sometimes the Musketeer dragons are allowed to hunt in the surrounding woods."

They moved past two empty alcoves before coming to another with a dragon within and Constance unlocked that gate.

"Mind if I…?" d'Artagnan asked, gesturing to the basket. One reason Aramis had arranged for him to find lodgings with the Bonacieuxs was so he could get some experience with dragons. In addition to becoming a musketeer, he wanted to work his way up to the rank of dragon rider.

Constance indicated for him to go ahead. He picked up a rabbit carcass and prepared to toss it into the alcove, but before he could release it, the dragon surged forward and tried to snap it out of his hand. He dropped the rabbit and jerked back, barely avoiding a set of fangs taking his arm off. The dragon snaked its head down to snatch up the rabbit, but Constance moved forward, blocking the rabbit with her skirts.

"Zhar!" she reprimanded sharply. "You know better!"

The dragon glowered, but after a moment of Constance holding her ground, he ducked his head.

"Back," she commanded and didn't budge until the dragon had shuffled back into the curve of its pen. Then she bent down to pick up the rabbit, but instead of immediately tossing it in, she waited for several long beats. The dragon made a huff that sounded like a pout but didn't make another move. Constance finally tossed the rabbit in.

D'Artagnan was frankly too stunned to say anything, though from the dragon or the woman he wasn't quite sure.

"You have to show them who's in charge," Constance said. "Not through cruelty, but confidence." She threw in a second rabbit before closing the pen gate.

"You definitely have that down."

She shot him a wry look. "I've spent my whole life around dragons. My father's family has been serving as royal dragon keepers for generations."

"Then there's no one better I can learn from," he said.

When they reached the next dragon, d'Artagnan tried again, this time holding himself with calm and confidence. Either it worked, or this dragon was just less temperamental than the other one, but he was able to feed it without problem. Once again, d'Artagnan thought handling dragons wasn't all that different from dealing with horses, though he knew better than to say that out loud in front of the scaly beasts.

"Are these dragons waiting to be paired with a musketeer?" he asked when they finished feeding the seven in the den.

"Two of them are ready for that," Constance answered. "But not every musketeer wants to become a dragon rider, and not every dragon is housed for battle readiness. We have a female and male for breeding, though breeding is very difficult and has a low success rate, which is why the King doesn't have more dragons. We also have the King's personal dragon, though he doesn't ride. It belonged to his father and he likes the symbolism of having it more than working at the skill of being a master rider."

D'Artagnan's brows rose sharply and he couldn't help but glance around, but the compound was empty save for them and the dragons. "You don't have a problem speaking your mind, do you?" he said in amusement.

She shot him a pointed look. "Should I?"

"Not at all," he quickly backpedaled. "I just imagine some people might not appreciate it."

Constance let out a soft snort. "You sound like my father. And Captain Treville. I know who it's safe to speak my mind around." She arched a brow in an almost daring look at him.

D'Artagnan felt warmth blossom in his stomach at being counted among those she trusted, despite the fact they'd only known each other for less than a day. The amount of people willing to give him a chance right from the start made d'Artagnan want to live up to such faith all the more.

"So the other two?" he asked, counting the full pens.

"Still in training. As you saw, Zhar behaves for me, and for my father, but to be paired with a musketeer, he must have the discipline to behave in front of anyone and everyone, no matter what."

D'Artagnan nodded along, his gaze roving thoughtfully over the dens. Becoming a dragon rider was such a long ways off—he hadn't even gotten his commission yet. But he couldn't help but wonder whether any of these dragons would still be available, if one of them might be his one day.

"Speaking of discipline, I should get to the garrison. I don't want to be late my first morning."

Constance smiled. "Good luck."

He grinned back. "Thanks."

He thought he might need it.

.o.0.o.

Athos woke lethargic and to an achy head—as per usual. Rolling toward the edge of the mattress, he fumbled around under the bed for a bottle of wine. The two his fingers bumped against rolled with the telltale lightness of being empty. He pushed himself into sitting up and found a third bottle on the bed beside him, a small amount of wine sloshing around the bottom. He uncorked it and knocked back a swig to help take the edge off his morning. The locket that dangled around his neck bounced against his chest, and he glanced down at it morosely, the memento a symbol of both the happiest and worst time of his life.

He dragged himself to the window to pull in the bucket that'd been left out to collect rain water. At this time of year, the top had frozen into a thin layer of sleet. Sitting on his knees bowed over it, Athos stared tiredly at his distorted reflection before punching right through it. Then with weary resignation, he plunged his entire head into the freezing liquid.

He was fully awake after that, if not still achy. Grabbing his rapier, he proceeded to stretch out his muscles and get some limberness back into his limbs. Then he dressed for the day and headed out into the streets of Paris.

His first stop was a tavern Porthos liked to frequent when searching for a card game. Athos knew he hadn't gotten to play the night before, so there was a good chance he'd found his way into this establishment to make up for it.

And sure enough, there he was, sitting with a red guard with cards laid out on the table between them. The round looked over and Porthos was reaching for the winnings when the red guard stopped him.

"What's going on?" Athos asked.

Porthos leaned back in his seat. "Dujon and I were havin' a discussion about personal integrity."

"Your friend had the King up his sleeve," the red guard accused.

"Oh, that's slander," Porthos replied. "Tell him, Athos."

"Don't involve me in this." He strode to the counter and poured himself a drink from an almost empty bottle sitting atop it. He heard Porthos make a warning noise and looked over his shoulder to see the red guard had pulled a pistol on him. "Shoot him and it's murder," he cautioned.

"One less musketeer," Dujon sneered. "Who cares?"

"Fine words from a red guard," Athos replied, then sighed as he paced around to the back of the room. "There's only one way to resolve this. A duel between gentlemen, supervised according to the strict code of honor."

"Fine," Dujon growled. "In a fair fight, I'm a match for anyone."

"Confidence," Porthos chuckled. "I like that in a man."

Dujon stood and drew his blade. "Still, why fight fair when you might lose?" He kicked the chair holding Porthos's weapons belt away and advanced on the large musketeer.

Porthos threw his palms up. "My sword," he said tightly.

"Your problem, eh?"

"Attacking an unarmed opponent defies every principle of chivalry," Athos pointed out. Though, really, it wasn't like he didn't expect as much from a red guard.

Porthos backed around the other side of the table into the middle of the tavern, casting his gaze around. Face cracking into a grin, he snatched up a fork from someone's used plate.

Athos inclined his head with a twitch of his lips. "Close enough."

"En garde."

The two advanced and Porthos parried a strike of Dujon's sword with that piddly fork. The duel was rather entertaining to watch, especially since Porthos was holding his own, but as Dujon backed up toward Athos, the swordsman took that now empty bottle of wine and smashed it over the red guard's head, crumpling him instantly.

Porthos quirked a brow at him. "What happened to the code?"

"Oh," Athos sighed. "Who has time? We're already late."

Porthos shrugged and set the fork down, then went back to the table to retrieve the winnings. As he was scooping the coins into his hands, Athos caught his wrist and turned it over, revealing the King card tucked up his sleeve.

Athos shot his friend a pointed look. "Porthos."

The other man grimaced. "Yeah, I need ta work on that."

Athos shook his head and turned around, only to come face to face with two more red guards standing between them and the door, hands on the hilts of their swords. Their angry gazes flicked between the musketeers, Porthos's hidden King card, and Dujon knocked out on the floor. Athos sighed; seemed they'd be making time after all.

The red guards drew their swords and charged. Athos whipped his from its sheath and blocked the blade aimed at his chest, but the force of his opponent nearly drove him back against the table. He managed to hold his ground and push back.

Porthos had a little more time to properly draw his sword this time around, and soon the bar was filled with the strident screech of steel and clatter of furniture as the soldiers kept bumping into things. Fighting in close quarters wasn't the best venue for a duel. Despite that, the two musketeers made quick work of the red guards—after a few exchanged strikes, Athos slammed the pommel of his blade into his opponent's head, dropping him like a cut marionette, and Porthos merely ducked under his opponent's attack and flipped the guy up and over his shoulder to land in a groaning heap next to Dujon.

Athos sheathed his blade, picked up the coins from the table, and tossed them to the barkeep. "For the damages."

Porthos huffed in displeasure but didn't put up a fuss—he did cheat, after all—and the two of them finally left to head to the garrison.

The young Gascon was waiting in the yard, looking anxious. He immediately straightened upon seeing them.

"I see you made it," Porthos greeted heartily.

"And here I was worried I'd be the one who was late," the boy remarked.

Porthos chuckled. "We had a minor detour."

Athos looked around. "Where's Aramis?"

D'Artagnan just shrugged.

Athos could have groaned. Surely he wasn't that stupid…

"There he is," the boy said, perking up and looking over Athos's shoulder.

Athos turned to see their missing third sauntering through the gates with that stupid grin on his face. "Aramis," he chided, barely able to suppress that groan.

The marksman threw a cheeky grin back at him. "And good morning to you too."

"You were with Adele Bessette again," Athos accused.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"A gentleman doesn't have an affair with the Cardinal's mistress under his nose in an attempt to steal her away," Athos retorted.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened.

Aramis scoffed. "Adele is different. I love her."

Athos rolled his eyes; Aramis was always in love. He chased women the way Athos chased the bottle. Which was one reason the swordsman never took Aramis to task over it. They all had their vices.

"And how was your night at the Bonacieux's?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan. "I assume the lodging is going to work out?"

The boy shook himself out of his astonishment and nodded. "Yes. Thank you again for arranging it."

Athos arched a mild brow at the information. He knew Aramis and Porthos hadn't discouraged the boy's interest in the Musketeers, but to actively encourage it, well, that bore consideration. And the young Gascon _had_ gone above and beyond helping the others prove Athos's innocence.

He drew his sword and stepped away from the group. "Care for some sparring?" he asked. "I'd like to see your skills when you're not hellbent on killing me."

D'Artagnan grimaced, looking abashed, but drew his sword and cautiously made his way over to take up position. They saluted each other with their blades and commenced in a much more calm and controlled fashion than the day previous. Athos had to admit that the lad had skill, though his need to win was making him overzealous again. Something the musketeers would have to work out of him.

But were any of them so different when they'd started?

Their dragons meandered over to watch, and Athos was impressed that their presence didn't unbalance d'Artagnan. Granted, the boy had barely batted an eye at them when he'd come blustering in to kill Athos. Not until Savron had intervened.

They sparred for a good while before finally calling a stop and making their way to the yard table where Aramis or Porthos had brought out a pitcher of water and four cups for them.

"Not bad," Athos praised.

D'Artagnan smiled into his cup.

A resounding thwack of wingbeats sounded from above, and they all looked up as Treville's dragon soared overhead and landed in the center of the garrison in a puff of dust. The captain swung out of the saddle and marched toward them, expression livid.

"Uh oh," Aramis murmured. "What'd we do this time?"

Athos braced for their captain's storm.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to duel with the Red Guard?" Treville exclaimed.

"That was fast," Porthos commented under his breath. "They must've gone runnin' straight to the Cardinal to whine like the pussies they are."

The Captain stepped right into Porthos's face. "Do you think that's funny?"

Porthos shifted his weight. "Er, not if you don't…"

"You're lucky you're not being thrown into the Chatelet for the day!" Treville snapped, whipping his gaze over the three of them. "I can't protect you if you keep dueling with the Cardinal's men."

Aramis held up a hand. "For the record, I wasn't involved in whatever transpired this morning."

Athos rolled his eyes skyward; like the Cardinal didn't have other cause to throw Aramis in the Chatelet.

"You've been involved plenty of times before!" Treville rejoined. He finally paused to take a steadying breath and lowered his volume. "The Cardinal has once again petitioned the King to disband you. Fortunately, the King prides himself on his Musketeer regiment." Treville worked his jaw. "But I'm afraid I lost my temper with the Cardinal in front of the King, who has decided to declare a tournament between the two regiments to see who is the better."

Athos arched a brow and shared an intrigued look with the others. "What kind of tournament?"

"Swords and muskets. It is to be held tomorrow."

Aramis didn't even have the grace to hide his grin at the prospect.

Treville heaved a sigh, then did a double-take as he finally seemed to notice d'Artagnan hanging back awkwardly, but the captain didn't comment on the lad's presence. "I'll inform the rest of the men," he said. "Try not to get into any more duels before tomorrow."

With one last look of reprimand, he strode back to Kilgar and the two headed across the yard to where another group of soldiers were congregated.

Aramis clapped his hands together. "This should be fun." He slung an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "And you can get some training in while we're practicing."

The boy canted a wary look at the marksman, which only made Aramis grin wider.

"We've seen your skill with a blade. Now let's see if you know how to shoot."

Aramis guided the young Gascon over to the supply room and began taking out targets to set up against the left wall. Athos and Porthos followed to observe. Aramis handed d'Artagnan a musket and the boy loaded it like he knew what he was doing, though he was very slow and methodical about it. Aramis, of course, had his done and was patiently waiting.

He let d'Artagnan shoot first, and the lad wasn't a bad shot; he got the ball in the second outer ring.

Aramis then raised his musket and took aim, not rushing the shot. A split second before he squeezed the trigger, he ducked his head. It was no surprise to the musketeers when the ball hit dead center. D'Artagnan gaped in astonishment.

Aramis straightened and adjusted his hat with a smug grin. Porthos rolled his eyes.

"The Red Guard doesn't have much of a chance tomorrow, do they?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis shrugged cheekily. "Not really."

The boy looked over at the dragons. "Is there anything in the tournament with them?"

"No. The Red Guard don't have any dragons."

"They're the Cardinal's personal guard," Athos added. "Even though he uses them to help protect the King. And only the King can keep an army of dragons."

"Which is too bad," Porthos put in. "Because our dragons would beat theirs, no contest."

"In what?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"Everythin'. Speed, agility, intelligence."

Athos noticed Savron and Vrita exchanging a conspiratorial look at that, and then suddenly they both launched into the sky, beating their wings as fast and hard as they could as they careened north into the clouds.

D'Artagnan blinked in bewilderment. "Um, what just happened?"

"They're having a race," Athos replied nonchalantly. "Apparently they're feeling left out of the festivities."

"And they can just…fly off like that?"

Porthos shrugged. "They'll be back."

Aramis's dragon, Rhaego, scuffed his feet in the dirt and cast a pinched look up at the receding shapes in the sky, looking disgruntled at being left behind.

Aramis walked over and patted his flank. "It's because you always win. Wait till you age a bit and get as slow as those two."

"Hey, watch who yer callin' slow," Porthos rejoined.

Rhaego cocked his head as though he didn't know whether to be complimented or offended.

Athos shook his head in exasperation and turned to d'Artagnan. "Aramis and Porthos tell me you want to become a dragon rider. After today you may want to change your mind."

The boy just grinned. "No, I don't think so."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my solution to the title problem was to just shorten "with" the way Porthos would pronounce it. Fitting since he's the bamf in this fic. XD Hopefully the change wasn't too confusing.

The day of the tournament dawned with perfect weather—clear skies, no wind, and a moderate temperature for spring. Eight wooden posts had been set into the ground in a wide square to define the contest area. Right in front and center was the royal box where the King sat with the Cardinal on his left. To the sides were stands for the courtiers and nobles to sit and watch the matches. On opposite ends of the field, large tents had been erected and filled with supplies for the tournament, the Musketeer regiment on the right and the Red Guard on the left.

There was excitement in the air, a near tangible thrum that vibrated in Porthos's veins with eager anticipation. Even civil contests held the thrill of the fight, not to mention any opportunity to whoop the Red Guard without getting into trouble for it was something to look forward to.

Porthos stood at the edge of the contest area and watched the current duel between Pierre and a red guard, the clash of their blades ringing like chimes in the air, punctuated by occasional gasps from the spectators. First blood would determine the winner.

The two soldiers were evenly matched and there was a lot of blocking and parrying back and forth before Pierre finally slipped under his opponent's guard and drew a score across his arm. The man stumbled back, and Pierre turned to salute the King with his rapier. Applause went up from the spectators while the musketeers let out boisterous cheers that made the defeated red guard glower peevishly as he skulked back to his end of the grounds.

Porthos and several others patted Pierre on the back as he returned to their side.

Aramis adjusted his hat atop his head. "That's my cue."

He went into one of the tents and came back out with a musket. The matches had been decided the evening prior and the order posted that morning. Next up was a round of marksmanship.

Targets had been set up fifty yards from the boundary of the contest area and opposite the spectator stands. Aramis walked out into the center as a red guard came out from the other side. They stopped in the middle and turned to bow to the King before facing away and lining up their shots. The red guard went first. The report echoed with a crack and his ball landed in the inner most ring but not dead center.

Porthos smirked. Aramis's boasting wasn't for nothing; he'd hit dead center no question.

Aramis sighted down the barrel, his finger closing around the trigger. A split second before squeezing, he ducked his head in typical show-off fashion.

The musket exploded in a burst of sparks and smoke, throwing Aramis onto his back on the ground.

Horrified gasps rippled through the spectators. Porthos bolted from the waiting area and across the field, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

"Aramis!"

Athos and d'Artagnan were behind him a second later, crouching down and shielding the marksman from view. Aramis's face was covered by his hat, which had bits of char and embers on the brim. Porthos yanked it off, then let out a breath of relief to find Aramis's face intact. That fan flourish of his had saved his eyes, maybe his life.

"Aramis," Porthos called and reached a hand out to clasp the back of his neck, worried at his lack of response.

Aramis started to blink dazedly, eyes unfocused. The force of the explosion could have caused a concussion.

"His hands," Athos said.

Porthos glanced down and saw that they'd been burned, one worse than the other. "We need ta get him inside."

Athos nodded and the two of them moved to pull Aramis off the ground, slinging his arms over their shoulders and supporting him between them. His head lolled limply and he didn't even try to take his own weight. But as they shuffled their way off the field, he seemed to rouse some, feet tripping over each other in an effort to walk. D'Artagnan jogged behind them, Aramis's hat and the exploded musket in his hands. Porthos heard the Cardinal say something loudly though he didn't pay attention to what it was.

The gathered crowd of musketeers parted for them, two reaching to hold open the tent flap so they could enter. D'Artagnan scampered ahead to pull out a chair for Porthos and Athos to ease Aramis into.

"Hey, look at me," Porthos commanded, capturing Aramis's face in his hands.

Aramis blinked a few times in an effort to focus. "I'm all right," he murmured.

"You hit your head."

Aramis tried to shake his head in the negative but Porthos wasn't letting him move. "No, I'm…just dazed. Really."

Porthos glowered at him skeptically.

"Is one pupil larger than the other?" Aramis asked.

Porthos focused on his friend's eyes, taking a long moment to study them. "No," he finally admitted, and he was relieved Aramis didn't seem to have a serious head injury, but that did not make him fine.

Aramis suddenly hissed sharply and bowed forward, moving his hands protectively to his lap as though he'd just become aware of them.

"Easy," Porthos coaxed, releasing his head and kneeling down to inspect his hands. His left had a few bright red scratches, having been holding the barrel further down from where it'd exploded. The right one was far worse with raw and blistered skin dotted with splinters from the musket.

Athos crowded next to him to get his own look. "Should we send for a physician?"

Aramis grimaced as he lifted his arms to see better himself. "It's- it's not that bad. Superficial burns. They just need to be debrided and cleaned."

"Easy fer you to say," Porthos grumbled. "Usually yer the one doin' this stuff."

Aramis gave him a sympathetic look. "If you'd rather send for someone… I'm sure the tournament won't be delayed for long."

"Don' be ridiculous."

"Where's your bag?" Athos interjected.

"Um…" Aramis squinted in concentration. "In the back over there." He gestured with his chin and Athos went to rifle through his satchel for the med kit he always carried.

"D'Artagnan, bring some water," Athos instructed.

The young Gascon set the destroyed musket on the ground out of the way and hurried to leave the tent, but one of their fellow musketeers hovering in the opening passed him a water skin, so he pivoted back around with it.

Porthos folded the sleeves of Aramis's coat and shirt up as much as he could, thankful that the leather doublet had protected his arms. Athos brought Aramis's kit back over and grabbed a stool to set it on. He then flipped the leather folds open and pulled out a pair of tweezers from its slot. D'Artagnan stood by waiting as Athos started by picking out the noticeable debris.

"Don't you have a medic for this sort of thing?" the boy asked.

Porthos snorted. "Aramis is our medic."

"Oh."

Athos had his head bent over his task with the utmost concentration while the men pressed up against the tent opening exchanged murmurs.

"I'm fine," Aramis managed to get out between harsh breaths through his nose. "What's happening outside?"

"Captain Treville is arguing for you to have a second while the Cardinal is pushing to move on to the next match," Joubert replied.

"His musket misfired; of course he should have a second!" Porthos exclaimed.

Joubert just shrugged, but it was clear the rest of the men felt the same.

A rumble rippled through them then and Porthos turned his head to see what it was about.

Pierre pushed his way toward the tent opening. "They've declared the red guard the victor and are moving on," he scowled.

"That's unsporting," d'Artagnan blurted.

"No one ever said the Red Guard _or_ the Cardinal had good sportsmanship," Pierre replied.

Porthos shook his head indignantly and the men finally began to disperse, leaving Athos to work in peace and Aramis to bear it without an audience.

When the debridement was done, they poured some water over his hand and Athos grabbed a cloth to pat it dry. Aramis clenched his jaw throughout the procedure.

"Wine?" Athos queried.

"No," Aramis gritted out. "Salve. Third pouch on the right."

Athos pulled out the small tin and opened it, then proceeded to gently rub the balm over the burned flesh. Aramis visibly tensed and sucked in a harsh breath.

"You sure this ain't that bad?" Porthos checked.

Aramis gave a clipped nod but didn't verbally respond.

With the salve applied, Athos retrieved a roll of linen and wrapped Aramis's hand up to his wrist in bandages. His left hand had only a few splinters that needed to be plucked out and Athos cleaned the scratches but Aramis said it didn't require wrapping.

They were just finishing up when Treville came into the tent. "Report."

"I'll live, Captain," Aramis replied. "Some mild burns are the worst of it."

"And a small knock to the head," Porthos added because even the small ones shouldn't be ignored.

Treville's expression was grim as he surveyed his man. "You were lucky. A musket misfire could have seriously maimed you."

"I don't understand what happened. I cleaned and primed that musket this morning when we first arrived. It was in perfect working condition."

"Someone must've tampered wit' it," Porthos responded.

"Where is it?" Treville asked.

"Here." D'Artagnan went to pick it up from where he'd set it and brought the piece over for them to inspect. The barrel was completely obliterated, the wood curling outward from the force and heat of the explosion. Aramis really was lucky no chunk had impaled his throat or face.

Treville shook his head. "There's no way to determine what caused the misfire."

"Sabotage is what it was," Porthos declared.

"Be careful with accusations you can't back up with proof," Treville warned. "The Cardinal would jump at the chance to accuse us of deflecting blame for a mere accident."

Porthos clenched his fists but knew it was true.

"We'll carefully inspect any musket before the next round of marksmanship," Treville said. He turned to Athos. "Etienne is in the ring now but you're up right after, so you should get ready."

Athos glanced at Aramis, who nodded he was fine. Reaching out to clasp the marksman's shoulder briefly, Athos then headed out with the captain.

"You and d'Artagnan should go too," Aramis said. "I'm fine."

Porthos shifted reluctantly. "You sure?"

He nodded. "There's some willow bark in my kit I think I'll chew on for a bit for the headache I'm developing, but I promise, I'm fine. Go support the others."

Porthos huffed in displeasure but relented, and he and d'Artagnan exited the tent. Etienne was still engaged in his duel—which happened to be against Dujon. Porthos smirked smugly at the prospect of getting to see that putz knocked down a peg again.

Athos was standing at the posts watching the duel, so Porthos and d'Artagnan walked over to join him.

"At least you keep yer blades on you at all times," Porthos said gruffly. "So we know no one's messed wit' 'em."

"You really think one of the red guards was behind this?" d'Artagnan asked. "They could have killed Aramis."

"They probably would've considered that a bonus if they had," Porthos said bitterly.

"The two regiments have a longstanding rivalry," Athos added.

They turned their attention back to the duel taking place, the fierceness of the battle only emphasizing Athos's point. But as they watched, Porthos noticed Etienne seemed to be struggling—faltering in his steps, flinching abruptly at nothing. Dujon pressed his advantage, pushing Etienne back with driving ferocity.

"Hey," d'Artagnan spoke up. "You see that?"

He pointed and Porthos followed the direction until he spotted a glint of bright light on the other side of the grounds. It flashed again a moment later.

Someone was using a mirror to reflect the sun in an attempt to blind Etienne during his duel.

"Those bastards," Porthos growled.

Athos's expression turned flinty. "Come on."

He turned and slipped between the tents, Porthos and d'Artagnan quickly following, and the three of them made their way around the back of the spectator stands to the Red Guard side of the grounds. Porthos shouldered his way through the gathered soldiers in search of the cheater, but as the red guards began to recognize him, they started to shove back.

"Get back to your own side!" someone jeered.

"Let me through!" Porthos raged, barreling through them. But by the time he reached the spot where the saboteur had been, the man was gone. Porthos whirled around in search of him as the red guards pressed in upon him, Athos, and d'Artagnan.

"What are you doing here, musketeer?"

"You lads get lost?

"A musketeer couldn't find his own ass in the dark."

The insults rose but were abruptly drowned out by a series of cheers from the musketeer side, and Porthos looked over to see Etienne standing victorious over his opponent.

Athos clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go," he said lowly.

Porthos gritted his teeth as the three of them wove their way out of the crowd while the red guards were distracted by their recent defeat.

"What if the man comes back during Athos's duel?" d'Artagnan asked as they strode around the back of the spectator stands again.

"I can try to keep my back to their side of the field," Athos replied.

"To hell wit' that," Porthos exclaimed. "We need ta fight fire with fire."

D'Artagnan quirked a brow. "How?"

"I've got a little pocket mirror of my own."

Athos pulled up short and rounded on him. "We are not going to cheat."

"I wasn't gonna use it on yer opponent. But if that bastard comes back and tries to blind you, then I'll jus' blind him in return."

"If someone spots you, _you_ could be accused of sabotage."

"We can't jus' let 'em get away with it."

Athos huffed. "We can spread the word for the others to be on the lookout. But we will not engage in any activities that could cast aspersions on our honor."

Porthos grumbled under his breath. "Fine."

They resumed their trek back to their side of the grounds and arrived just in time for the next match to be called. Athos stopped by one of the tents to grab a bottle of wine and take a swig. Then he drew his blade and headed out for his duel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been making some art to go with these stories and will be posting them to my tumblr (aini-nufire) if anyone's interested.

D'Artagnan folded his arms over one of the wooden posts as Athos strode into the contest area to face his opponent. The red guard sneered at him but wiped his expression clean when they turned to bow before the King. Then they pivoted toward each other and raised their blades.

Having fought against Athos himself, d'Artagnan knew how good he was. He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself earlier, but the musketeer had been going easy on him when d'Artagnan had tried to kill him. He couldn't be too sore over it though, considering how things had worked out. As Athos launched himself toward the red guard, d'Artagnan got a glimpse of just how fierce the musketeer was, his moves swift and fluidic like the rapier was an extension of his arm rather than a tool to be wielding.

Aramis emerged from the tent and came to stand with them, his heavily bandaged hand tucked close to his chest. He was looking much better than before. When that musket had exploded, d'Artagnan had thought for sure the marksman had been gravely wounded. He may have only just made friends with the man, but the thought of another loss so soon after his father had stolen the breath from his lungs.

But Aramis had been lucky.

And speaking of acts of sabotage, d'Artagnan roved his gaze over the audience on the Red Guard side of the grounds, searching for that man with the mirror. He'd been wearing a hood over his head so d'Artagnan hadn't gotten a good look at his face. He kept an eye out for the glint of the mirror instead.

A series of rising murmurs from the crowd had him turning his attention back to the ring. At first he looked to see if there was a spot of reflected light from somewhere he'd missed, but there wasn't. Athos, however, was stumbling around the arena almost drunkenly.

The red guard surged forward with an attack, which Athos clumsily parried, nearly losing his balance in the process. He lurched to the side and twisted around, swaying where he stood.

Across the ring, the red guards began to laugh and point in derision.

"Looks like the Musketeers' resident drunk forgot to sober up for the fight!" someone said loudly.

"This is the King's best?" another jeered.

D'Artagnan glanced at the musketeers. Porthos's cheeks were puffing lividly and he looked ready to march right across the field and deck one of those mocking soldiers. Aramis, in contrast, was watching Athos with a furrowed brow.

"Something's wrong," he said.

Athos swung haphazardly and his opponent merely sidestepped to avoid the blow. Now there were snickers in the stands as Athos continued to humiliate himself and the red guard proceeded to obviously toy with him. D'Artagnan didn't understand what was wrong; Athos had been fine minutes before.

"Shouldn't we stop the fight?" he asked.

"We can't," Aramis said tightly. "It's against the rules."

"This is ridiculous!" d'Artagnan hissed.

Aramis's expression was pinched in equal anger. "Yield," he urged under his breath. "Just yield."

A round of titters went up in the stands as Athos tripped and went sprawling on his back, seemingly too dazed to get up. D'Artagnan tensed as the red guard moved in and pointed the tip of his blade to the musketeer's throat. But instead of drawing first blood, he shifted his rapier and gave Athos a playful whack on the top of his head, earning even more uproarious laughs.

"Your Majesty!" Captain Treville finally intervened. "I think we can declare the victor in this match."

Louis's face kept scrunching up between bursts of laughter and annoyance that it was his own man being disgraced. "Yes, you're right," he said quickly, and waved a hand at the red guard. "Another round for you, Cardinal."

The pompous man didn't even bother trying to hide his smirk.

"Get Athos out of there now," Aramis said urgently to Porthos.

The large musketeer hurried out into the ring and hauled Athos to his feet, slinging an arm over his shoulder and dragging him away.

Captain Treville stormed over. "What in God's name is wrong with him?"

Aramis ducked in front of Athos and lifted the man's chin with his non-bandaged hand. "His pupils are dilated," he announced in alarm. "He's been drugged."

D'Artagnan's brows shot upward. _Drugged_?

He hurried after the others as they carried Athos into the same tent they'd brought Aramis earlier. This time the marksman—or medic, d'Artagnan supposed—went rifling through his bag in the back while Porthos eased Athos into the chair. The swordsman swayed, seeming not at all aware of what was going on around him.

"Dammit, I need castor oil and mustard!" Aramis cursed.

"Are those at the garrison?" Porthos asked.

"Yes, in the infirmary. Second cabinet from the door."

Porthos spun and went barreling out of the tent. D'Artagnan quickly moved in to catch Athos before he could fall out of the chair.

"How did this happen?" Treville demanded.

D'Artagnan shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know. He hasn't eaten anything that I've seen. And he only had a sip of wine from a bottle kept in the next tent over."

Aramis took d'Artagnan's place supporting Athos. "Go get it."

D'Artagnan turned and darted over to the neighboring tent. He spotted the wine bottle sitting on the ground just outside where Athos had left it. Snatching it up, d'Artagnan rushed back to Aramis.

The marksman immediately took the bottle and uncorked it, then took a long whiff. After a moment's consideration, he knocked back a drag, only to crane his head and spit it right back out. "It's been tampered with." He set the bottle aside and turned back to Athos, tapping the man's cheek in an effort to get him to stay awake.

D'Artagnan turned to the captain. "Shouldn't the tournament be cancelled now?"

A muscle in Treville's jaw ticked. "No. That will only disgrace the Musketeers further, which is the point of all these mishaps."

"Mishaps?" d'Artagnan repeated incredulously. "Aramis could have been killed. Athos's been poisoned!"

"Did you see anyone suspicious near the tent earlier?" Treville countered. "Anyone you can identify?"

D'Artagnan huffed in agitation and shook his head, as did Aramis.

"Then without proof, there's nothing we can do except spout wild accusations that I'm sure the Cardinal will turn around to embarrass us further."

D'Artagnan spun away and paced to the other side of the tent. This was unbelievable. The Red Guard was going to get away with this?

Porthos returned then with two bottles, presumably the items Aramis needed. The marksman barked at him to pour one into the other and mix it together. Porthos hurried to do that, then handed it to Aramis, who tipped the contents right into Athos's mouth. The swordsman tried to jerk away and Aramis clamped his good hand over Athos's lips to prevent him from spitting it out.

"Bucket!"

Captain Treville grabbed one full of tools and dumped them out on the ground before quickly passing it to Porthos, who barely got it under Athos's face in time for the emetic and wine to make a reappearance.

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose and turned away. This was unacceptable. He wasn't going to just stand by and let the Red Guard get away with blatant _murder_ attempts.

The others didn't seem to need his help taking care of Athos, so d'Artagnan quietly slipped out of the tent and made his way around the field to the Red Guard side of the grounds. Since he wasn't a musketeer and didn't wear the uniform, none of the soldiers there should accost him.

He slunk around the back of one of their tents, trying to stay inconspicuous. Fortunately, a lot of them were gathered at the edge of the contest area where another round of marksmanship was to commence. D'Artagnan wondered whether they were eagerly awaiting another misfire, though surely that would _have_ to arouse suspicions. Though, given what he'd heard thus far, d'Artagnan supposed the Cardinal could easily make an argument that all of the Musketeer regiment simply took poor care of their weapons.

D'Artagnan leaned his head around the edge of the tent flap to see if it was empty, and then slipped inside. He roved his gaze over the supplies and weaponry. All he needed to do was find evidence of the drug given to Athos, as that would surely be definitive enough to call a stop to these stupid games. He hurried over to a crate of wine and looked it over, but it appeared normal, maybe their own stash. He uncorked a bottle and took a whiff, just in case.

Unfortunately, he wasn't versed in poisons like Aramis was. He took a tentative sip and spit it out to be safe, but it didn't taste odd to him. Turning around, he swept his gaze over the supplies in search of a smaller bottle or vial.

Shadows passed over the outside of the canvas and d'Artagnan quickly ducked down behind a rack of muskets. Three red guards entered the tent. D'Artagnan grimaced and tried to make himself as small as possible, praying they'd be in and out—and weren't here to pick up a musket.

"You're going up against the mongrel," one of them said.

The guard in the middle snorted. "And I'm gonna put him down like one." He reached into the fold of his red uniform and pulled out a small vial.

D'Artagnan stiffened and tried to shift quietly so he could see better between the lined up muskets.

"The other stuff was just to bring that Athos down a notch. This stuff will have a more _permanent_ effect."

The men sniggered as the guard poured the clear liquid in the vial over his parrying dagger, coating the steel as evenly as he could get it. D'Artagnan clenched his fists in anger and wanted nothing more than to leap out and dispatch the lot of them for such dishonorable treachery. But he'd likely get himself hanged that way. So he gritted his teeth and waited for the men to leave.

The moment they were gone, he was on his feet and sprinting toward the tent flap, barely taking the time to check that the coast was clear before darting out and hurriedly making his way back toward the Musketeer tents. He arrived just as the next match was announced to the spectators—and it was Porthos.

The large musketeer was already stepping into the contest area.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan shouted, skidding to a stop at the edge of the post line.

Porthos threw a look over his shoulder, brows furrowing. "What?" he asked in a low voice as his opponent was announced. D'Artagnan's eyes widened when he recognized the man from the other tent.

He crossed into the ring and grabbed Porthos's arm. "You can't fight him," he hissed. "He's got a poisoned blade."

"What? What are you talkin' about?"

"I snuck over to their side to look around," d'Artagnan explained. "I saw him coat his parrying dagger with something. You can't fight him."

Porthos glanced over his shoulder toward his opponent, who looked far too confident for someone about to go head to head with a man of Porthos's stature.

"Is there a problem?" the King called impatiently.

Porthos's jaw visibly tightened and he turned toward the royal box. "No, Your Majesty. No problem."

D'Artagnan gaped at him. "Porthos…"

"If we try an' call this off, it'll look like an excuse," he hissed.

"This isn't a game. That guard means to fight to the death."

Porthos's eyes hardened. "Then that's what he'll get. Now get outta the ring."

D'Artagnan sputtered as Porthos broke away and went out to the center of the arena.

"D'Artagnan!" Captain Treville snapped.

Letting loose a frustrated growl, d'Artagnan spun around and jogged out of the ring.

"What was that about?" the captain demanded.

"Porthos's opponent has a poisoned blade, but he's going to fight him anyway."

Treville frowned and shifted his gaze to the men, who had begun to circle each other. The red guard had both rapier and parrying dagger at the start, and d'Artagnan felt his stomach coiling into knots. Porthos had his broader blade in one hand and the other free.

They sidestepped through one full circle before the red guard attacked first. Porthos blocked and pushed back, forcing the guard to stumble back a step. Then he brought his blade down hard with a resounding clang that d'Artagnan thought would cut the red guard's sword in two. But with their blades crossed, he slashed out with his parrying dagger. Porthos wrenched away at the last second, avoiding getting cut.

D'Artagnan ran a hand down his mouth. He didn't want to watch and yet he couldn't look away. The spectators watched with enthusiastic grins and "oohs" and "aahs." They had no idea the stakes involved in this duel.

Porthos deflected a few more strikes and the red guard's cheeks puffed with apparent annoyance. The man suddenly feinted right, triggering Porthos to cross his sword across his body to block, but at the last second the guard twisted left and drove his dagger toward Porthos's arm. D'Artagnan's heart seized.

Porthos dropped his sword and threw his hand up to catch the red guard's wrist. With a deft twist, he wrenched the dagger from his grip and retaliated by scoring a slice across the man's collar bone instead.

The man's eyes blew wide in realization and he stood frozen for a suspended moment. Even d'Artagnan had forgotten how to breathe.

And then the red guard stumbled backward, hands flying to his throat as he began to cough and choke. Within moments, he crumpled to the ground, sightless eyes staring out at nothing. Stunned silence settled over the onlookers.

The Cardinal surged out of his chair. "Treachery!" he declared, jabbing an accusing finger at Porthos. "This musketeer has cheated by coating his blade with poison!"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. D'Artagnan was so incensed that he was ready to storm out there and challenge the Cardinal himself to a duel, but Treville strode out first.

"Your Majesty, Porthos disarmed the red guard and used his own blade against him. Which means it was the Cardinal's man who was attempting to cheat."

Louis blinked, appearing to shake himself out of a stupor. "Quite right," he said. "The musketeer Porthos has won this match."

"Your Majesty," Treville quickly inserted. "There is evidence that there were other attempts at sabotage."

The Cardinal scoffed. "And now Captain Treville tries to paint his men's failures as though they were victims."

"Your man did bring the poisoned blade, Cardinal," Louis pointed out. He shook his head and tutted, "I am most disappointed. Here you were boasting the superiority of your men and they've resorted to acts of sabotage."

"One's man dishonorable actions does not reflect upon the whole regiment," the Cardinal quickly deflected.

Louis canted his head in a considering moue. "Still, I believe the tournament is over and the winners are clear. Congratulations, Treville."

The captain of the Musketeers bowed, as did Porthos, and then they began to make their way off the field as the King retired from his box.

D'Artagnan shook his head at Porthos but still smiled, relieved that he was all right. "You're either extremely brave, or extremely stupid."

The larger man grinned.

"I would say it's a bit of both," Treville interjected with the exasperated tone of one who was used to such stunts.

D'Artagnan glanced across the yard at the red guards. "Is that really it? We know there was more than one cheating."

"No doubt wit' the Cardinal's approval," Porthos scowled.

Treville sighed. "It wouldn't surprise me. But that is a wasp nest we do not want to poke. And at least their efforts were thwarted before they could do serious harm."

D'Artagnan wasn't sure about that as they entered the tent to check on Athos and Aramis. Athos was still sitting in the chair, but was upright on his own now. There was a rancid stench in the tent that matched his sickly green complexion.

Aramis was soaking a towel in water, which he wrung out and placed on the back of Athos's neck. "What's going on?"

"The tournament is over," Treville informed them. "The Musketeers won."

Aramis beamed at that.

"You should get back to the garrison," the captain added, then excused himself.

D'Artagnan gave Athos a worried look. "You all right?"

"Fine," he mumbled. His lolled his head back to look at Porthos. "I hope your duel went better than mine."

D'Artagnan let out a soft snort, which earned him a pointed glare from the large musketeer before Porthos just grinned at Athos and shrugged.

"It went alright."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

Aramis was throwing them both suspicious looks but seemed to decide to hold off questioning them until later, as he ordered d'Artagnan and Porthos to help Athos up so they could get out of there.

.o.0.o.

After getting Athos settled in the garrison infirmary and watching Porthos force Aramis to sit so his hands could be cleaned and treated again, d'Artagnan finally headed back to the Bonacieux residence. He was exhausted after the stress of the day, and he hadn't even participated in the tournament.

As he walked into the dragon compound, he found Constance in the yard saddling a dragon.

"How was the tournament?" she asked when she saw him.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to answer, only to shake his head and smile wearily. "The Musketeers beat the Red Guard," he settled for answering. "But it turns out those tournaments are a lot more dangerous than one would think they are."

Constance huffed. "I don't doubt it." She paused and gave him a sober look. "Was there anything serious?"

D'Artagnan thought about it for a moment. He'd call it serious, but Athos and Aramis _were_ going to be fine. "Nothing they all didn't walk away from."

Constance narrowed her eyes like she could tell he was holding back but didn't pursue it. "Would you like to come for a ride?" she asked instead.

D'Artagnan perked up at the invitation. "Yeah? Um, sure."

Smirking, she went around and climbed up into the saddle, her skirts bunching up in the back. She didn't seem to care. D'Artagnan tentatively pulled himself up behind her.

"Here," she said, holding out an anchor line, which he quickly took to attach to his belt. He noticed her attaching one to a belt around her waist.

After a moment, Constance threw a pointed look over her shoulder. "You might want to hold on."

"Oh, right." He awkwardly slipped an arm around her waist, his cheeks flushing warm as the position had them pressing right up against each other.

His discomfort was forgotten a second later when the dragon leaped into the air and thwacked its wings to rise into the sky.

"Where are we going?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm just giving Dragor some exercise," she shouted over the gusts of air. "But I like going this late in the day. You'll see why in a bit."

The dragon eventually leveled out and they flew east for a short distance. D'Artagnan let himself simply enjoy the sensation of the wind currents through his hair and the heady rush he got from soaring so high above the ground.

Then they turned around to head back west, just as the sun was touching down on the horizon, splashing the countryside in gold. D'Artagnan found himself mesmerized.

"Told you," Constance said, shooting him a grin over her shoulder.

"It's breathtaking," he agreed, but then his gaze shifted to the side profile of her face as she looked straight ahead, which he suddenly found equally captivating. _And so are you,_ he thought.

With Constance the one flying the dragon, she didn't notice that he stared at the back of her head for the rest of the journey home. They landed in the yard and unhooked their anchors before sliding out of the saddle.

"Could you teach me how to ride a dragon?" d'Artagnan asked.

Constance pursed her mouth in consideration. "Well, technically these are the King's dragons, and you're not a musketeer yet. But…" She gave him a sly smile. "I think we can work something out."

D'Artagnan grinned back. He would look forward to it.

And to spending more time with Constance Bonacieux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> When Aramis is poisoned by a trap meant for Athos, it becomes a race against time to find a rare cure that's just as treacherous to obtain.


End file.
